


countdown: 24 hours

by caffeine101



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Fluff and Angst, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Whump, John Whump, Kidnapped John, Kidnapped John Watson, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Whumptober, bthb: race against the clock, he just hasn't realized it yet, race against the clock, rated T for bad words
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-28 19:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20971811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeine101/pseuds/caffeine101
Summary: Message: Unknownsent: 23:58 [read ✓]hey sexy.sent: 23:58 [✓]remember when I said I'd burn the heart out of you?sent: 23:59 [✓]I'm here to collect.sent: 13:59 [✓]let's play a game :)sent: 00:00 [✓]your time starts now.//Sherlock didn't leave well enough alone. Moriarty always makes good on his promises, and John Watson is the perfect way to do it.





	1. 00:00

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy another multichapter one that'll update a chapter a day (yay whumptober). fingers crossed I finish this one lmao.

There were few things that could break Sherlock Holmes’s concentration.

Human chatter was something he had learned to tune out easily, along with the static noise of London that never faded - most speaking, yelling, honking, and beeping faded easily into the background, in one ear and then promptly shoved to the back of his mind to be deleted later. There was something that _always_ grabbed his attention, though, and that was-

_Ding._

“John, phone,” Sherlock called, not looking up from the microscope (in which he was studying fingernails that were the equivalent of Petri dishes when it came to the number of bacteria on them - delightful) but holding out one hand.

_Ding. Ding._

“John! Phone!” 

_Ding. Ding._

With an annoyed sigh that he may have made louder for John to hear, he lifted his head to glare at John, only to find the flat dark (it had been 7pm when he had started . . . his experiment had taken longer than he had anticipated) except for the light in the kitchen, where he was, and John-less. He frowned, trying to think back at what he had ignored while he was looking at the fingernail-bacteria. Someone had successfully warded off a petty thief below them, two cars had narrowly avoided a road-blocking accident, and John-

John had left to go out for drinks with Lestrade (at approximately 9:42pm - it was currently 12:00am. John probably wouldn’t be back for another 30 to 55 minutes, depending on how nice it was outside). 

That was why he was alone. He’d have to fetch his - _Ding._ \- phone himself, then. He sent one last look at his microscope, then stood up, ignoring the protest of his muscles after moving them from the position they had been in for five hours. He snatched his phone up from the desktop, glaring at the screen as he read the number.

**Message: Unknown**

The glare fell off his face and was replaced by a slightly more confused frown (not completely confused - Sherlock Holmes didn’t get confused - but uncertain). He rarely got ‘unknown number’ texts, especially since caller ID numbers started displaying the phone number of those he hadn’t contacted before. 

There was only one person that always showed up as Unknown Number, but he had been dead for years now, ever since he had shot himself moments before Sherlock had jumped. He didn’t want to believe it, but when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. And if Sherlock had faked his death, didn’t it make sense that Moriarty must have done the same? (Sherlock would be the first to admit that he admired the man’s intellect - he hated the man himself, ever since their first meeting (he liked to think that their first meeting, the day he started to hate the man, and the day he had threatened John had coincided as a coincidence, and not that he hated the man _because_ he had threatened John) - but he had to admit the man was clever). 

First he did have to get all the facts. As soon as he read the messages, though, there was no doubt who had sent the texts. 

**Message: Unknown**

_sent: 23:58 [read ✓]  
hey sexy._

_sent: 23:58 [✓]  
remember when I said I'd burn the heart out of you if you didn’t leave me alone?_

_sent: 23:59 [✓]  
I'm here to collect._

_sent: 13:59 [✓]  
let's play a game :)_

_sent: 24:00 [✓]  
you have 24 hours. your time starts now._

Sherlock read and reread the messages - it was clear Moriarty had somehow, inexplicably, survived the gun to the face, but that puzzle was for another day - trying to deduce anything, anything at all, about what game Moriarty was playing this time. There was always a first clue, or a first move, that Moriarty had to make or give, but he hadn’t left . . . anything. There was no secret code in the words, nothing that Sherlock could use to- 

The messages disappeared from the screen and instead was replaced by **Calling: DI Lestrade**. He glared at the screen, wondering what the DI could probably want at this time of night, just as he was, finally, in the middle of something important. He answered the call, jabbing at the screen, before holding the phone up to his ear and snapping, “What?” (He couldn’t even have texted, no, he had to call, despite knowing that Sherlock preferred to text.) 

His anger melted and was replaced by a concentrated intensity as soon as Lestrade’s first words came out, stiff and solid and definitely not of his own volition. There was a silence at the beginning (two people breathing - one Lestrade, one likely threatening Lestrade. He was a smoker) before Lestrade started to speak. “Got my messages, handsome?” he practically recited (no echo, no background noise or chatter, clear rumble of air conditioning and engine - in his car). “Come on over and collect your first clue.” 

The phone hung up before Lestrade could offer any more hints, or before Sherlock could ask for any. He didn’t need to, though, it was clear where he was - Lestrade didn’t drive if he could help it, only owned the police car and left that at the yard. Sherlock didn’t pause before grabbing his coat and scarf, and rushing out the door (he wasn’t worried, just excited for the game to be on). 


	2. 00:28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock cursed Moriarty for being such a _damn bastard_ as he recognized what the metal was. Another personal touch. John’s dog tags._
> 
> //
> 
> Sherlock receives his first clue in the form of one tied-up Detective Inspector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sherlock & lestrade are good friends even if neither of them know it pass it on.
> 
> any mistakes are mine bc google wouldn't tell me the best way to smash open a car window :)

Sherlock jumped out of the cab before it even came to a complete stop, throwing money at the cabbie without checking the bill number, racing to where he knew Lestrade left his car every day without fail. Sure enough, the car was still there. Sherlock tried to peer in the windows as he ran closer and closer, but the tint proved too much for even his eyes, and so instead he only ran faster, grabbing the handle and yanking.

Sherlock didn’t expect it to be unlocked, and he was right. The door stubbornly stayed shut. Lestrade had taken all of Sherlock’s duplicates in his last drugs bust (unfortunately - perhaps this experience would convince the DI to allow him at least one. In case of emergencies, of course), so it was with little regret that Sherlock hefted his hammer (taken casually from Mrs. Hudson’s rather sizeable cupboard of tools), walked over to the passenger’s side (it wouldn’t do to have to waste time cleaning out glass cuts from Lestrade, which he would only do for Lestrade’s help and not because of any _sentiment_. This way, if he aimed his blow right, there would be minimal damage to Lestrade, although he couldn’t say the same about the car), and barely remembered to call out a brief warning to the man inside before bringing the tool down harshly on the window, where it collided with a _crack!_

He didn’t bother looking away to cover his eyes (he knew glass, he knew how to shatter glass, and he knew how to avoid getting hurt as he did so), only waited for the sound of shattering glass to end before he peered inside (Lestrade was sitting in the driver’s seat, of course. Wrapped securely around his face was some sort of fabric most usually found in clothes - required further investigation - and his hands, and probably his feet as well, were secured with a glinting metal that matched with none of the most commonly used restraints - further investigation as well), carefully unlocked the car, and ran around to the other side of the car to open the driver’s door. 

His hands immediately went to work at the fabric on Lestrade’s face. “What did you see?” Sherlock said (resisted the urge to ask if he was okay: what would that do? He had no physical injuries, and it was likely not in the top ten most traumatic things that had happened to the DI).

“Christ, Sherlock,” Lestrade moaned out as soon as he was free. 

Sherlock turned his attention to the fabric, starting to snap (he hated repeating himself), “What. Did. You-” only to be cut off as he realized what the restraint was: it was indeed clothing fabric, a jumper to be precise (not very effective), but what was startling wasn’t what it _was_, per say, it was that he recognized this particular jumper. How many times had he seen _John_ wear this same, soft, oatmeal-coloured jumped, to crime scenes, in the flat, on dates? (Blond hairs on the neckline, small tear at the hem from being snagged on one of Sherlock’s sharper experiments, and distinct smell of John all further proved his conclusion.) 

If this jumper was here, though . . . Sherlock suddenly felt cold fingers wrap around his stomach and _squeeze_ (and he sounded like John, romanticizing everything, but that really was the best way to explain it) as he realized what that meant. Moriarty had promised to burn the heart out of Sherlock by attacking the one thing that proved Sherlock had one. 

How many times had Mycroft told him not to get attached, that sentiment was always on the losing side? And here he was, paying the price for it - no, Sherlock was willingly playing this game, but John, _John_ was paying the price for it, when he-

“Sherlock!” Lestrade said, looking at him, concerned (quick glance at the time, 00:13 - he had been staring at the jumper for upwards of two minutes - sloppy, sloppy). “You okay, mate? You-”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, twisting the jumper around his hand and _squeezing_ before he realized it was evidence, evidence that would help him find Moriarty and in the end _save John_ and letting go. “What did you see?” 

Lestrade suddenly looked affronted. “That was what I was trying to tell you, before you spaced out. I thought you hated repeating yourself?”

“I do,” Sherlock said, glaring at Lestrade pointedly, hoping he’d get the point (Lestrade was of above-average intelligence, which of course meant that he was still an idiot, but he was . . . bearable).

Lestrade did, and thankfully did explain, glaring all the while (although the effect was dampened considerably by the underlying hints of concern, but for what? Sherlock was fine). “I was wrapping up the paperwork for the last case - plenty of it, thanks to you - and packed up and left at about 11:58. I only stopped by the car to grab my apartment keys, although I was sure that I had them with me when I was doing the papers-” (He probably had, this was just a tactic to snatch him) “-when the door closed behind me and locked, and someone cocked a gun right by my ear. Let him do this-” he wiggled his hands and feet (which weren’t bound with the same metal, as Sherlock had thought, and instead were just duct tape. He started to tear the tape off as Lestrade continued) “-and then he called you. Held out a piece of paper with my lines, I recited them, and then he wrapped whatever that is-” he tilted his head at the _(John’s)_ jumper in Sherlock’s hands, “Around my head. Left and locked the car doors behind him- Damn! He’s got my keys!” 

Sherlock let out a noise of frustration (he was disappointed - usually it was John doing the growling _when he wasn’t kidnapped and in the hands of a psychopath-_), punctuated by the noise of the last piece of tape ripping off of Lestrade’s trousers. There was nothing - nothing in that explanation that could help him. Sherlock had always known Lestrade was unobservant, just as everyone else was, but even now, when Sherlock needed him most, he couldn’t have tried to observe _anything?_

“What’s that, then?” Lestrade asked, motioning to the jumper with his still-bound hands (again and again, sloppy. Every minute counted, he was on a timer, it was already 00:19). “I know you recognized it, you spent two minutes staring at it.”

Sherlock debated not telling him what it was, but eventually he would need the Yard (not their help, but their resources) to help find John. “It’s John’s,” he said stiffly, watching as Lestrade’s eye widened. 

“So . . . ?” and wasn’t that remarkably slow of him?

“Yes, Moriarty has John,” Sherlock said, moving on Lestrade’s hands. It was a metal chain that seemed familiar, just as the jumper had. 

“What, Moriarty? How’d you know? Didn’t he-”

“Shoot himself, yes, but he’s still alive, as am I. Don’t look so surprised, Lestrade, it’s not a good look on you, only Ander-” and again, Sherlock cursed Moriarty for being such a _damn bastard_ as he recognized what the metal was. Another personal touch. John’s dog tags. 

He wrenched them off of Lestrade’s wrists - “Sherlock, what-?” - and held them up to the light. There was no mistaking them, with John’s name written on them, glinting in the light. 

Sentiment was a funny thing. Right now, though, it was overwhelming, all negative, all bad, all fear and anger and worry and-

It was Lestrade that finally did it for him. “Those are John’s, aren’t they,” he said, although it was more of a statement than an answer, and the reality of it hit Sherlock like a truck, and with a yell, he threw both the jumper and the dog tags to the ground, the burning of his eyes nothing compared to the rest of him, the burning of his hear-

This was exactly was Moriarty wanted. He wanted Sherlock to hurt, wanted Sherlock to be too late in getting to John, wanted Sherlock’s heart burnt, set aflame until it shriveled up and turned to ashes. And he couldn’t let that happen (couldn’t let John get hurt, had to find John, had to beat Moriarty, had to- had to-

Mycroft was right. Especially now - sentiment was a disadvantage, and would only hinder him now, would only hinder him from getting to John. He couldn’t let any of this get the better of him (worry about Lestrade: rash actions, destruction of evidence. Fear for John: carelessness, time-wasting, sloppiness. Sentiment was already hurting him, already keeping him from John, with his beautiful eyes and beautiful smile and-)

So he closed himself off. He was a self-proclaimed sociopath, after all, he didn’t care. Maybe he’d care when he got John back (maybe he’d tell John he no longer considered himself married to his work-) but right now he had a case to solve, and he didn’t need emotions or sentiment to do that.

He carefully picked up the items, turning to Lestrade with a blank face, now that Lestrade was untied and standing up, and said in his trademark cool voice, “They are. Moriarty has him. Earlier, he sent me these-” he gave Lestrade a brief flash of his phone for him to see the text messages, “and now we have to find him.” 

“But- with what?” Lestrade said, haltingly, probably surprised by Sherlock’s complete 180 in actions and emotions. 

“With these,” he said, holding up the jumper and the dog tags.

Not even a full minute later, his phone buzzed.

_Ding!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> setting up for the johnlock now lmao-


	3. 00:45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11 days in and I've still been (kinda, mostly, sort of) punctual even if I've cheated by doing it chapter a day instead of prompt a day lmao-
> 
> anyway I don't like this one but that's what happens when you don't sleep the night before ig. hopefully it was only a weirdly muddled stream of consciousness for me bc everything's kinda fuzzy rn. 
> 
> any mistakes about carbon monoxide, fire, and murder in general are mine even though I did do some research into this one.

It was 00:45 and every moment felt like a fever dream.

Sherlock had mentioned what was going on - Sherlock and Moriarty (who had survived? He shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was, given that Sherlock had survived as well, but surely shooting yourself in the head was harder to fake) were playing a _game_, some sort of battle of wits that John had been caught up in the middle of. 

Already, Lestrade was feeling overwhelmed, and that wasn’t something he admitted easily, especially in the presence of Sherlock. Even following Sherlock for the short time that he had, had him privy to a glimpse of the minds of two geniuses - even if one was a notorious criminal - and the games the two played, how they danced around each other and how Moriarty almost _toyed_ with Sherlock. It was intriguing and horrifying and so very hard to keep up, all at the same time. 

At first, when Sherlock had showed him John’s things and explained that this was all Moriarty, Lestrade could only wonder: why? Why kidnap John, but also give Sherlock clues as to where and how? Why was Lestrade a part of it, if only to send a message? Why send the message in the first place? Power plays were not something Lestrade was a stranger to (the most notable being when he met Sherlock’s own brother, with ‘met’ really just a kinder word for ‘kidnapped by’) but there was something about the way it was all set up that reminded Lestrade vaguely of the logic puzzles he used to enjoy as a child, before it became his full-time job and the stakes were much higher than just the name of a dead person on a paper.

He had dismissed the thought immediately, only for Moriarty to confirm it when Sherlock checked his mobile, Lestrade reading over (around) his shoulder.

**Message: Unknown**

_sent: 00:28 [✓]  
the game is on, and already half an hour gone. good luck xoxo_

Sherlock's fingers had tightened noticeably against the mobile before suddenly relaxing as he locked it and thrust it into his coat pocket. “Move,” he snapped at Lestrade, no different than any other case, and Lestrade, knowing that getting insulted would only take up more valuable time (which seemed to be a lot more valuable, now that they were apparently on the clock) and energy, moved to the side. Sherlock bent down to peer inside the car, before calling over his shoulder, “Open all the doors. Check inside the car for anything out of the ordinary. This is my first clue, and since you offered no help, there must be something in here that wasn’t there before.”

“First clue?” Lestrade had read the text, knew that this was all a game to Moriarty, but even Sherlock seemed to be accepting this as a scavenger hunt, a series of puzzles with John as the prize. Lestrade had known that Sherlock liked to play murder - how many times had he heard him cry “the game is on!” before dramatically bursting out of a crime scene, bloody Belstaff fluttering behind him? - but even now, with John’s life on the line, he was treating this just like any other case? 

Lestrade hated it when people called Sherlock inhumane or a machine. He had seen Sherlock at his lowest - doped up on drugs, rocking back and forth in an alley, covered in sick and mud and dirt and tears, muttering nonsensically - and knew Sherlock definitely felt more than he let on. His earlier outburst was clear proof of that, but suddenly, Sherlock was just as cold and closed off as he was for every other case. 

“Yes, first clue, Lestrade, _keep up._ We’re going to find John in 24 hours or else,” Sherlock ripped the glovebox open, which would look frantic if it was anyone else, but Sherlock was always like this, especially on a case.

“Or else what?” Lestrade asked, opening the back doors and slipping inside, checking under seats and behind headrests.

“That’s what he wants us to find out, but as even your remarkably basic mind can likely comprehend, it isn’t going to be good.” The glovebox, after Sherlock had thrown everything out of it, closed with a slam and promptly fell back open. He sifted through the items before pausing on one.

“Case file. Again,” Lestrade had heard him mutter. He’d found it - and was probably going to rush off with it, leaving Lestrade in the dust to desperately try and catch up and Sherlock solved the case on his own. Not this time - Lestrade liked John, they went out for drinks every couple weeks, and he would be damned if he didn’t at least try to help. Not to mention, he was sure Sherlock was affected by this more than he let on, and he would be there for Sherlock if he needed him (as unlikely as it was to happen - Sherlock would probably admit to being an idiot before he admitted he needed help, or even showed it to any degree). 

He shut the door and instead moved around to the other side of the car. He loomed beside Sherlock, blocking off the car doorway of the passenger seat and reading over Sherlock’s shoulder, as Sherlock sat in the passenger seat and, instead of immediately jumping up and pushing Lestrade away and he thought Sherlock would have, stayed seated and read the file then and there.

It wasn’t formatted as a file for a case normally was - instead it, there were only three lines typed in a neat font Sherlock could probably identify on the spot, on blank paper Sherlock probably knew the brand of, inside a manilla folder Sherlock could probably trace back to a specific store. It seemed to be more of a short story blurb than anything, but the name of the victim combined with the “case” was anything but entertaining.

_Molly Hooper’s body was found in the rubble of an apartment building after it burned down at 00:52, although it was confirmed that all burns and other injuries sustained by the fire were post-mortem. All other inhabitants' COD confirmed fire-related injuries. No foul play suspected. COD: unidentified. Cause of fire: unidentified._

Below it was a picture of the charred apartment. It was a studio apartment, although there was no furniture to identify the space, only what could vaguely be identified as former countertops and maybe a stove. A single red light, presumably from a fire alarm, from what Lestrade could see in the grainy photo, illuminated the space with help from the camera flash.

“We’re supposed to solve it?” he had asked, feeling foolish. If this was a game, it was obviously meant for only Sherlock to play - he was nothing more than a puppet here. He was a game piece, if he had been used to deliver the first clue, although he was only glad that he wasn’t in John’s position, as the final prize that he was sure Moriarty did not mean for Sherlock to win. 

“I am - and I have,” Sherlock had murmured after a split second. “Moriarty is losing his touch. This is obvious, too obvious. We will have John back in only a few more hours, if that.” Before Lestrade could even ask what was so obvious about the little information they had been given, Sherlock had already whipped out his phone, sent Moriarty the answer. 

_sent: 00:45 [✓]  
Obvious. Carbon monoxide poisoning, both killed Molly and lit the flat ablaze. -SH_

Carbon monoxide poisoning? Now that Sherlock had mentioned it, he didn’t need Sherlock to explain it to him (he doubted Sherlock would have anyway, as absorbed in this new game as he was) - the red light must have been from a carbon monoxide monitor. 

Moriarty’s reply came quick and it lead to where he was now. A cold fear had his heart in a tight grip and he raced over to the other side of the car and threw himself in the driver’s seat even before Sherlock had barked at him to _drive!_

_sent: 00:45 [✓]  
knew you could do it. now what are you going to do about it? there’s only 7 min left to save her_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sacrificed my search history to plan this out hopefully once I complete this it's as good as it sounds on the outline. rest assured, it's a bad outline because most of my writing is v e r y improvised. 
> 
> anyway thanks for reading this chapter :)

**Author's Note:**

> let's see how far I can get with exactly .01% of this planned :)


End file.
